I’d like to help colleagues stop the uninsured drink driver, who might otherwise end up killing someone on the roads.
Photograph: Jack Sullivan/Alamy

I’ve been a volunteer cop since the age of 18. I’m now 40. That’s a lot of policing for free, but it’s not policing on the cheap.

Aged just 20, I attended my first murder. This was the 90s, and the victim had been stabbed 20 times. We were short on staff even then and had just 10 police officers on duty for the centre of Edinburgh, but we managed to catch the killers on the same night. Just hours later I had to celebrate my 21st birthday on the roof of the shopping centre where I’d found his body. That stays with me even now.

These days I’m the boss of 35 special constables in a big English town. We’re volunteers but we hold full police powers and the office of constable, and deal with everything from violent drunks to missing people. It’s a role undertaken by people from all walks of life. Cabin crew who walk off a plane, go home, get changed into another uniform, leave their families behind and come out with us for free. The paramedic who joins us from a shift driving ambulances, leaving one 999 service for another. Electricians, mechanics, doctors, shop assistants, rail health and safety experts.

I am a manager for a consumer website. Switching between a sometimes mundane desk job to a role where anything can happen, and often does, is like training for eight rounds in a boxing ring. It is mentally and physically exhausting. You are suddenly exposed to the worst that life has to offer.

Why do we do it? It’s a job like no other. When you hear that a dad has a knife and he’s going berserk, your heart skips, you worry about his wife and kids; your colleagues get there, but what can they do with a piece of aluminium and some CS spray? They call for a Taser officer and luckily she is just around the corner in a local street; she manages to subdue the dad and the family are safe.

Or when everyone drops everything to go and find a missing child. We literally drop everything. About 10 police officers get into their cars, we call for dogs, helicopters, CCTV. If we’re lucky, it won’t take long for little Alice to be found wandering two doors down in Mothercare. But we’re not always lucky.

Special constables spend 10 weeks in the classroom learning law, counter terrorism, and how to use equipment such as batons and handcuffs. Then we go out on duty and learn the ropes on shift. We are trained in first aid and re-assessed every year. I do several shifts a month, at least 35 hours on duty and 20 hours of admin.

Sometimes we are taken for granted. There’s one sergeant who talks to us worse than the criminals we arrest. Sometimes there’s no thank you from the public or the regular officers. It’s also hard for my family. My wife never sleeps well when I’m out, and my four-year-old sometimes cries when I leave for a shift.

This is not a plea for sympathy, but I want you to know police officers are people too

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But being a special is a way of life. It absorbs you, and you get a kick out of good results. We do it because we are dedicated, professional, and sometimes the only constables available. I’d rather be there to help colleagues wrestle with drunk people who are fighting than leave them on their own. I’d like to stop the car with the uninsured drink driver, who might otherwise end up killing someone on the roads.

I once attended an urgent call after a women’s boyfriend hit her so hard he broke her cheekbone. He returned while I was with her. I was on my own but managed to make the arrest. At court, I spent an hour trying to convince the woman to go into the witness box – he was sitting just yards away outside the witness room and she was ready to give up on the case. But she was brave and gave evidence, and I spent 30 minutes in the witness box too. It was my evidence that got him convicted: he’d lied in his statement, saying he hadn’t been in the house to commit the assault, but I’d seen his coat and phone when I arrived. Being a special is a job like no other.

So next time you see a police officer walking around or getting out of a car, remember that they may be a special. They could have been driving your bus earlier, delivering your mail, or serving food on a flight to Mauritius.

This series aims to give a voice to the staff behind the public services that are hit by mounting cuts and rising demand, and so often denigrated by the press, politicians and public. If you would like to write an article for the series, contact tamsin.rutter@theguardian.com.